


You've got me nervous and trembling (Smoking Cigarettes at night)

by MXGHTYSHVLD



Series: Marlboro Men [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark!Greg, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Ghost!sherlock (sort of), Good Cop Bad Cop, Hurt Greg, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, John Watson is a Bit Not Good, M/M, Marlboro Men AU, No Mary Morstan, OR IS HE, One Shot Collection, PTSD, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock is dead, Sherlock jumps and everything goes to hell, Takes place after season 2, These poor boys, Trigger warning: Smoking Cigarettes (A LOT), dark au, dark!john, greg and john go rogue, greg and john?????? GREG AND JOHN????, is there a one night stand? there may be a one night stand, one sided sherlock/greg if you squint, so there's a few swears, these kids need therapy, they're grown ups
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 17:48:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15587340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MXGHTYSHVLD/pseuds/MXGHTYSHVLD
Summary: Almost 1 year without Sherlock, and this is who John’s become. He would be so very disappointed.- Greg smokes too many Marlboros, John sees too many ghosts.





	You've got me nervous and trembling (Smoking Cigarettes at night)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cubiclesdemo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cubiclesdemo/gifts).



> this is my first work, hopefully, more to come. wish me luck, sound off if you liked it. The title came from the song "Smoking Cigarettes" by Tweet.

Sunday-Coming up on 12 months, John thinks as his knuckles explode into the man’s bearded cheek.  
The junkie’s head smacks into the cold metal table of the investigation room, and there is Greg, a hand firmly on the back of their suspect’s neck, the other splayed out on the table. The fluorescent light flickers above them.  
“Now,” Lestrade begins, voice firm, and completely detached. “Why don’t you start talking, and I can tell Mr Watson to take a break.”  
The man groans, saliva and blood pooling on the table underneath him. John watches the corded muscles in the DI’s arm flex as he pushes the junkie’s head further down onto the table.  
“Alright, alright, please, just send him out, yeah?”  
Greg releases his grip.  
“Mr. Watson, if you please.”  
John leaves. Neither of them look each other in the eye.

Outside, he leans up against the one-way mirror and pulls out a cigarette with bloody fingers. Lights it. Watches the empty, unmoving desks of the yard flicker in the overhead lights.  
Almost 1 year without Sherlock, and this is who he’s become. He would be so very disappointed.  
“Didn’t take you for a Marlboro sort of man, John.”  
Talk of the devil.

Sherlock leans up next to him, idly fiddling with his coat cuffs. John looks straight ahead and ignores him.  
“Isn’t it a little rude to blank someone when they’re speaking to you, Doctor?”  
“You’re not here.”  
“Aren’t I?”  
He pushes off the wall and walks towards the desks. As always, Sherlock follows him.  
It has been this way since the end.  
“Look at me, John.”  
He will not look. He takes a long drag of his cigarette, listening to the muffled cries of the junkie as Greg continues their investigation.  
“John, please,” Sherlock begs. “I need you to do this for me.” His voice is shaking, crackling. He hears it in his left ear only. “Keep your eyes fixed on me.”  
He looks.

  
Sherlock always appears the same. Pale eyes stare but do not see. The side of his head is a little sunken in, blood soaks his coat and falls in spatters to the linoleum. His lips are twisted in a victorious smirk as if he knows something John never will, which he always has. Had.  
“Come here, John. Come with me.”  
“You’re dead, Sherlock.”  
“Come and join me.”

  
Behind the brunette, the door opens. Sherlock Holmes blows away and joins the smoke of his cigarettes.

  
“We have him, John. Confession and everything. Feel free to head off, I’ll put him back in the shit hole he came from until tomorrow.”  
Greg rolls his sleeves down. One of his knuckles has split. It looks like it hurts.  
“John?”  
He blinks, looking up at the space between Lestrade’s eyes.  
“Good to see you’re back on planet earth, Watson. Go home.”

Greg’s body screams tired. Hasn’t slept in 3 days, says the stubble growing on his neck. His unbuttoned shirt whispers hints of a coffee addiction, and his fingers tell stories of smoking too early in the morning. If he would look at his face, he’d probably be able to hear a lot more.  
“Want a cigarette, Detective Inspector?”  
“Yes please, Captain.”  
John hands over the pack of Marlboros. Lestrade takes one, jams it between his lips and bends his head down towards John’s hands. He flicks the lighter and holds still as they are both illuminated in the yellow glow.  
“Thanks.”  
They walk to the lift in silence, both staring at the cold steel doors. John presses the button for the lobby, Greg for parking.  
“Do you want to go to dinner with me, Greg?” John asks, staring at the floor.  
“Yes, John, I would like that very much” Greg intones through a mouthful of smoke, looking straight ahead. The doors open, and John steps out.  
“I’ll text you.”  
“Please do.”  
“Goodnight, Greg.”  
“Goodnight, John.”  
As the doors close, he looks up and watches as Sherlock’s blood stains Lestrade’s shirt.

 

[want me to book for The Koi on Thursday? 7:30 OK?  
-JW]

[Thurs good. Can we make it 8? I’ll pick you up.  
-GL]

[8 it is. See you at work.  
-JW]

“So you’re going for dinner? How quaint.”  
“Shut up, Sherlock.”

Monday- they collect the junkie and arrest him for 3 counts of abusing a minor. Greg smokes 2 Cigarettes, John lights both.

Tuesday- John is on questioning, Greg slams a man’s head into a wall so hard he can barely speak for the rest of the evening. 4 cigarettes for the DI, he lights them all himself with mildly shaking hands. Sherlock laughs at them both from the corner.

Wednesday- Lestrade snaps his fingers in John’s face while he’s staring into space. They both look each other in the eyes. Greg’s are bloodshot and weary, John’s are dead. Nobody smokes.

Thursday- date night.

John Watson stands in his room, deciding between a black or a navy shirt. No jumpers, they all got shredded in month 3.  
“Go with the navy, John, it brings out your eyes.”  
He puts on the black.  
“This is pointless, John, just come with me.”  
7:55, He puts on his shoes. Takes time with the laces. Pack of Marlboros for the two of them in his jacket pocket.  
“You’re too far gone, John. You’re no good for him. Follow me.”  
8:00, a brisk knock on the door of 221B Bakers Street, home of John Watson and all of his ghosts.  
“I love you, John. Stay with me.”  
“Hello, John, are you ready to go?”  
If he slams the door a little too hard behind him, Greg Lestrade doesn’t comment.

 

The restaurant is desolate on a weekday, so they drink far too much and create a wall of smoke around them. John orders food and picks at it. Greg does not order at all.  
“When’s the last time you ate anything, detective?”  
“Monday.”  
They both reach for the pack of cigarettes. The doctor tries his best to ignore the Detective’s tremor.  
“My apologies.”  
“Not an issue,” John shrugs, removing his hand and scraping his fork around the plate of cold Lo Mein.  
“Shall we go to mine, then?” Greg asks, waving his hand for the bill. His hair is tinged blue from all the smoke. John almost has it in him to feel surprised. He knocks back the rest of the lager instead.  
“Yeah, let’s go.”  
They leave Lestrade’s black Skoda in the car park and take a cab. Sherlock sits in the front passenger’s seat and draws patterns on the dashboard with a spindly grey finger.

“A one night stand with Greg Lestrade. Somehow I doubt this will make it into the blog.”

“You alright, John?”  
“Just fine, Greg.”

“Liar.”

Greg opens the window to flick out his cigarette. John watches as Sherlock ripples and disappears in the breeze.  
The DI’s apartment is pleasant. Very clean. Black leather furniture that all matches. A huge window that opens out onto the city. The lights twinkle, staining some of the grey walls and carpet with a red glow. Greg strides in, throwing himself across a sofa and looking up at the ceiling. He keeps the lights off.

  
John stands in the doorway and watches the detective inspector begin to smoke himself to death.  
After a while, he speaks.

  
“What are we doing here, Captain Watson?”  
“Haven’t a fucking clue.”

  
Suddenly they are side by side and John is pulling the cigarette out of Greg’s mouth. He flicks the ash from it and pauses. Greg watches him with an expression that is completely unreadable. In the dark, illuminated by London and the fading end of a Marlboro, he could almost (but not quite) be one of John’s precious ghosts.  
“Do you want this back?”  
“No.”  
“Alright.” John looks him in the eye and begins to raise the cigarette to his lips.  
“No,” a softly trembling hand knocks his fingers from his mouth. The cigarette goes tumbling, only to be quickly picked up and placed in an ashtray on the table. John stays completely still as Greg sits back down.  
“No, John, I think we’ve both had enough.”

  
John looks at him. His eyes are two pinpricks in his face, hidden by shadow. He leans in closer, examining the stubble on the other man’s chin, the chap marks in his lips, the bruises under his eyes. Deductions come and go in his mind and he makes an effort to ignore them. He leans in further until his lips are warmed with breath.  
“John, stop.”  
Greg pushes a hand into his chest, softly, but with purpose. Then, he puts his head in his hands.  
“So we’re not doing this.” John sounds put out, he notes to himself. Funny, he didn’t remember setting any expectations.  
“No, John, we aren’t.”

  
Suddenly, he is angry. Damn Lestrade and his shaking hands and his living eyes. He gets up to leave.

“I see him, sometimes, John.”

  
Lestrade’s voice is wet. John turns around. Hands card through grey hair. Eyes filled with tears stab into his face.  
“He comes to me and tells me it’s my fault. That I should have been better. Trusted him more. He tells me I killed him.”  
John sits back down.  
“I see him too,” John whispers.  
“Yeah? What does he tell you?”  
“That he loves me.”  
“Ah,” Lestrade barks out, half laughing, half sobbing. “That must be nice.”  
“It isn’t. He looks...like he did. After he jumped.”  
The other man’s whole body shudders. John feels unwell.  
“He asks me to join him.”

  
Gregory Lestrade breaks. In a flash, there’s a hand on his neck, one splayed against his temple, fingers in his hair.  
“John, please- you can’t leave please don’t go John please don’t- don’t leave me on my own pl-“  
“I won’t, I won’t I’m sorry I won’t” his hands are on Greg’s back now, rubbing circles as his own breathing gets increasingly unstable.  
“Greg why didn’t you say anything you could have told me why didn’t you say anything” he’s choking on words now, Greg has him in a death grip, even though his entire body shakes and the voice of the army doctor he buried with Sherlock quietly remarks that if the detective continues on in this way, his organs will give out soon and he will die, and John will have another ghost to keep.  
“John, is he here right now?”

John listens to the pitter patter of blood on Greg’s kitchen floor.

  
“Yes.”  
“Tell him to fuck off.”  
He laughs weakly, softly rocking the Detective back and forth, back and forth, back and forth until the shaking stops and Greg’s arms begin to loosen from around his waist. After some time, John manages to get him to stretch out on the sofa, his head in the doctor’s lap, one still trembling hand curled on his chest, the other dangling limply into the space between leather and the floor. John ghosts his finger’s over Greg’s hair absentmindedly, watching his grey eyes as they begin to close.  
His fingers stop moving as he falls asleep.

  
“This isn’t right for you, John. He’ll be just fine without you. Come and join me.”  
Sherlock stands in front of them, filling the ashtray with blood and brain matter.  
“No, Sherlock. He won’t.”  
“So?”  
“He was your friend. If you were really here you’d be loading him into an ambulance yourself right now.” He looks down at Greg’s too pale face. “If you were here you’d do more than I am right now.”  
“Gregory Lestrade is not my friend. I don’t have friends, I just have one.”  
“Getting sloppy there, the real Sherlock Holmes didn’t know his name.”  
Greg mumbles apologies in his sleep.

  
“I love you, John. Come and join me.”  
“I love you too, Sherlock, but I’m not going anywhere”  
“Why? Don’t tell me you have feelings for him. Even Anderson could see through that lie. “  
“I’m staying, because I have to fix what you’ve left behind.”

Friday- they wake up on the sofa. They go to work. Dr. John Watson writes down his deductions to show to DI Greg Lestrade. They leave the Marlboros at home.


End file.
